


What do you think about the blood that I bleed?

by flyingtortoisetoes



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Soldiers, Complicated Relationships, Deity Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Demon Deals, Gen, Insane Wilbur Soot, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Necromancy, Not Canon Compliant, Not RPF, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Platonic Relationships, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video Game Mechanics, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), its schlatt and wilbur, theyre the complicated relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingtortoisetoes/pseuds/flyingtortoisetoes
Summary: Life was never exactly kind to Tommy, and now he’s dead. It happened sooner than he thought it would, but always the optimist, he’s looking on the bright side: he’ll finally have some peace and quiet.Unfortunately for him, the green idiot that murdered him has other plans, and the afterlife isn’t looking like it will be the peaceful retirement he was looking forward to after all.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	1. The freshness of beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is 3am. i am hungry.
> 
> the tags say this is an attempt at humor. this chapter isn’t humorous. there wasn’t even an attempt. it’s just sad.

He remembers a distinct darkness.

Not a darkness born from a lack of light. No, this darkness was born from a lack of life. How he knows that (or what that even means, for that matter) he isn’t sure. He’s just certain of it somehow, and that’s enough for him.

He remembers a distinct darkness, but that’s all he remembers.

With some effort, he opens his eyes, and he feels more so than sees the light once he does. He cringes away from it, though he’s uncertain as to what has caused the sudden ache in his retinas, and he curls into himself, his eyes squeezing tightly shut almost of their own accord.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s an itch. Through the dense fog of his mind arises a thought, and he briefly thinks of how infuriatingly pitiful he must look in this shattered state, but the thought is gone as fast as it was formed. He wonders what he had just been thinking about before deciding he doesn’t particularly care.

It couldn’t have been that important, he’s sure.

A gentle breeze blows past, caressing his cheek with a cool, not unwelcome touch. The hair on his arms rises as icy fingers dance from his cheek down to his arms, and he gets goosebumps. He shivers. He remembers something else.

He remembers the cold.

His eyes are open again and squinting blearily to adjust to the light. He feels a small pang in his chest, the feeling foreign and unidentifiable but at the same time eerily familiar. He takes in his surroundings. He doesn’t know where he is.

He’s not surprised, he decides with a curt nod and a numb resignation. After all, he doesn’t know many things.

It’s not as bright as it had seemed when he’d first opened his eyes, or perhaps he’s only just now grown accustomed to the light. Regardless, it’s much darker than he had originally thought, with the only sources of light coming from the seemingly millions of tiny dots in the sky.

 _Stars_ , he thinks absently as he fixes his gaze on the twinkling lights above him.

He swivels slowly to observe where another light shines down onto the field, nestled in a way that can only be described as both comfortably and regally in the deep velvety embrace of the sky. This one larger than the stars, a full circle, and somewhere within his muddled thoughts he knows it’s the moon.

He frowns. There’s a word for this, he thinks. One that ties all his observations together... one that connects the moon and the stars.

His face softens when the word comes to him. _Night_.

Yes, of course. It’s night. What that entails exactly, he doesn’t know, but even just knowing the word is enough for him. Every little victory counts and he’ll take what he can get.

He’s sat under a large tree. The grass beneath him tickles his bare legs as it sways gently with the wind. He pulls his legs in closer to the rest of his body, tucking his knees up against his chest and wrapping his arms around them so that he’s practically hugging himself.

That feeling, that unidentifiable pang, returns, and he comes to the decision that he definitely doesn’t like this feeling. It’s unpleasant, to say the least. If he were to say more, he’d say that it’s astronomically shitty.

He remembers this feeling, he’s sure of it now. He looks up through the leaves of the trees, furrowing his brow in concentration. He’s felt this way before, he _knows_ he has, but just like everything else that he knows he must be sure of, the word for whatever this feeling is evades him. He slumps against the tree in defeat, the rough bark scraping his at back through the flimsy material of his torn and dirtied T-shirt. He doesn’t feel it.

He wonders, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time, where he is and why he can’t remember anything. Well... anything that matters, at least.

Some rational part of his brain is telling him to get up, to find out what’s going on, to find out who he is. But another part of his brain, one that’s shrouded in a heavy fog, is urging him to stay.

A tiredness overcomes his body and all at once he realizes just how heavy his eyelids are and just how much his body aches. A little more sleep never hurt anyone, did it? Lord knows he could use it right now. He’ll search for answers once he’s better rested, he vows to himself with a slipping resolve and a growing exhaustion.

He falls asleep.

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s still dark. He turns his head, wincing as his neck cracks from disuse, and then turns his head to the other side until his neck cracks again.

He feels like shit.

He’s not sure how or why it’s still dark. He doesn’t know how long he was asleep for, but it had to have been at least a few hours. There’s no way it should still be nighttime. He sighs. Once again, he’s not sure how he knows what time is or how it even works, but he knows enough time _had_ to have passed for the sun to at least begin to rise.

With one last roll of his neck and shoulders, he stands shakily, cursing softly as he does. Why does his entire body feel like it was thrown into a blender?

He lifts a hand to his face, freezing when his fingers graze something sticky. Slowly, uncertainly, he moves to prod at his cheek and instantly draws his hand away, hissing softly as a searing pain flares in his cheek and darts of agony shoot up to his eyes, which, for whatever unknown reason, are _throbbing_. He didn’t even know that eyes _could_ throb. Apparently, he thinks bitterly and without any humor, they can.

Once the pain has subsided, he tries again, this time slow in his movements and gentle when applying pressure as he feels along his swollen face, unease churning in his gut when he drops his hands to his sides, having felt enough to know that his face must be severely fucked up.

His fingers feel gross. He looks at his hands and his stomach flips when he sees why. They’re absolutely coated in tacky, slowly drying blood. He resists the urge to throw up.

What _happened_ to him?

He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to remember. Images flash in his mind like some sort of demented slideshow, too fast for him to really comprehend any of it. There’s a bright green, standing out vividly against a backdrop of black and purple. There’s a splash of red. Again and again, the red shows up, blooming in front of his eyes like morbid flowers. There’s fear and there’s pain.

And then there’s nothing.

He opens his eyes. _Maybe you don’t want to remember_ , a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers. _Maybe it’s better this way_.

He chews on his lip absentmindedly. He feels a little sick. Maybe that tiny whisper in the back of his mind has a point. Maybe he _doesn’t_ want to remember. Then he sighs. If there’s one thing he’s absolutely certain of, it’s that he’s never felt so lost in his entire life.

With no other options readily available to him, he starts walking. He doesn’t know where he’s going and he doesn’t particularly care either. It doesn’t really matter much, anyway, he guesses. Anywhere’s gotta be better than here. He doesn’t quite like the idea of staying under that fucking tree until the end of time. That just sounds so unbearably dull. 

As he walks, nothing really seems to change. He’s walking through the same tall grass that slides against his legs with the wind, causing him to have to pause every few minutes to itch at his legs in idle irritation. The sky’s the same, too, and the stars seem to just stay in the same place. The moon is still glowing amicably behind him in a way that’s mildly aggravating. It’s like he isn’t even moving.

He pauses when he reaches the top of a hill. At the bottom of the hill is a small fenced-in pasture. His lip curls as he takes in the scene before him. It’s disgustingly idyllic, complete with a picturesque little cottage made of wood and cobblestone, and a picturesque little stream that cuts through the pasture and disappears into a thick forest behind the cottage. The whole thing is just so sickeningly _perfect_ , and he can’t help but feel a strong sense of loathing towards whoever owns the place. 

He thinks he’s envious, though he’s not sure why. 

There’s a warm glow coming from the cottage windows and there’s faint plumes of smoke rising from the chimney, so whoever lives there must be home.

He starts down the hill, but with each step closer to the cottage, a creeping doubt washes over him. Something embedded deep within him seems to grab at him, begging him not to get any closer, telling him he’s not _allowed_ to get any closer. That feeling alone is jarring, like a slap in the face. He freezes, but he’s already standing in the middle of the pasture, looking desperately at the cottage.

It’s as if he’s rooted to the spot with uncertainty. Once again, he feels so painfully _lost_. Maybe he should just leave, he decides, and with some effort, tears his eyes away from the building.

He turns away and starts in the opposite direction. This was a stupid idea. Who goes up to a random house in the middle of the night, anyway? He can figure something else. He’s sure of it. After all, he’s-

“Tommy?”

He freezes. The name rings in his ears. Broken, incomplete memories break through the fog of his thoughts, filling his mind until it’s all he can hear.

_Tommy, are we the bad guys?_

_Tommy, let’s be villains._

_Tommy, I want you to put it between his eyes._

_Tommy_

_Tommy_

_Tommy_

_Tommy_

_Tommy_

He turns, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. His gaze is unfocused and he’s staring without really seeing. He recognizes that voice. He _knows_ that voice. 

He lifts his head and looks into the eyes of someone he used to know.

”Hello, Wilbur.”

* * *

Tommy stares right into the eyes of a man he used to call his friend. A man he used to call his brother. 

A cold fury settles over him and he _remembers._ He remembers everything Wilbur had done, everything that had happened to him because he’d been dragged along into Wilbur’s messes. He remembers watching helplessly as Wilbur - his _brother_ \- descended into madness. He remembers cold and calculating eyes, a stark contrast to the soft, concerned eyes he’s staring into now. 

He remembers his... oh, God. He remembers his _death_. He remembers Wilbur’s death. He remembers _watching_ him die. 

And then he remembers everything after. 

Sick memories of war, violence, exile, hunger, pain, _his own death_ fill his mind until he’s shaking with pent up rage and pain. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur says again, his voice hushed and his eyes wide, swimming with emotions that Tommy can’t quite place. 

Tommy’s angry. He’s angry, he’s hurt, and he’s confused, and all he really wants to do is lay into Wilbur. To make him feel even _half_ the pain he’s felt since watching Phil drive his sword through Wilbur’s chest. But something in Wilbur’s tone, in his pained expression makes Tommy hesitate.

He breaks. 

Tears spill from his eyes and down his cheeks. His knees buckle and give out, and he crumples to the ground with a broken sob.

Suddenly he feels arms around him, holding him in a fierce, protective embrace, the implications of which are loving and familial, something that Tommy hasn’t felt in years. Something that’s too good to be true.

It’s all too much for Tommy and he sobs freely, burying his face into Wilbur’s chest and clutching at his shirt as Wilbur hugs him. 

“Wilbur, Wil, I’m d-dead. I’m... Wilbur, I’m _dead_ ,” Tommy chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head in a vain attempt to forget the feeling of his skull cracking against obsidian and rough, bloody hands gripping his hair and his throat, squeezing and crushing. “He killed me, Wilbur. I didn’t... he actually did it this time, I didn’t think he would, but h-he...” 

Another sob tore from Tommy’s throat, cutting him off, and he tightened his grip on Wilbur’s shirt. 

“ _Why me?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tommy is dead and i am sad. this is kind of a fix-it fic i guess? i don’t have a totally solid plan for where i want to go with this yet, but it’ll probably evolve into a big, fat, canon-divergent mess.


	2. The truth is stranger than my own worst dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glattbur supremacy >:)  
> peep the unreliable narrator and drug/alcohol abuse tags for this chapter

It’s always night in the afterlife, it turns out. Tommy isn't all that surprised if he's going to be honest. Perpetual darkness for a perpetual existence? He's no expert, but even he thinks that it's weirdly (and maybe just a little unnecessarily) poetic.

Tommy takes a sip of the cocoa he'd been offered and continues to gaze out the window. There's no need for food in the afterlife, Wilbur had told him. They lost all three of their lives, they're canonically dead. They can't die again, at least as far as Tommy and Wilbur are aware, so there's no real need to eat or drink.

It's just another way to pass the time that never runs out.

Call him morbid, but after taking a long look at his reflection in the window, Tommy thinks that he'd much rather be dead than alive right now. As fucked up as it sounds, Tommy hated being alive. Life was never exactly _kind_ to him, after all. He was worked to the bone, thanks to all those damn wars. And being exiled twice from a nation you sacrificed everything for wouldn't exactly be great for _anyone’s_ mental health, much less _TommyInnit_ , who gave everything for a country that had given him nothing in return. He survived all that just to get stuck in prison with fucking Dream because of some stupid external force. And now he's dead. He died begging a psychotic asshole with a god complex to spare his life.

So yeah, maybe Tommy would much rather be dead and drinking hot cocoa with Wilbur than be alive and having to deal with the constant bullshit flung at him by the SMP. Maybe that makes him pessimistic, but Tommy thinks he has every goddamn right in the world to be a little pessimistic every once in a while if he fucking pleases.

For all his loud boasting and childlike arrogance, Tommy will be the first to admit that it's easy to forget he's only sixteen. He's only a kid and he's already been through more wars than he can remember, two exiles, three deaths, and God knows how much suffering. He deserves to be bitter for once.

“Tommy.” 

Wilbur’s voice cuts into Tommy’s thoughts and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He’d forgotten Wilbur was there.

“Yeah.”

Wilbur’s looking at Tommy, mouth slightly open like he wants to say something. He looks concerned and Tommy tenses, preparing to have to tell Wilbur to fuck off and that he's fine. Luckily, Wilbur seems to reconsider, his mouth twisting as he turns away. “Nothing,” he says.

Tommy relaxes. He tilts his head to better look at his brother, a mischievous glint in his otherwise dull eyes. “You look like shit, Wil.” 

Wilbur’s lips twitch. “Gremlin,” he says mildly. Tommy can hear the fondness in his voice, and for the first time in too long, Tommy smiles.

Tommy looks down into his mug, fighting to control his smile. He’d missed this. He’d missed Wilbur - _this_ Wilbur, not whatever superficial, incomplete shell Ghostbur had been - though he'd never admit it. Wilbur’s ego is big enough as it is. The man has a chronic superiority complex, and Tommy’ll be damned before he feeds into that shit.

“Is Schlatt here?” He questions without thinking, then wincing internally and bracing himself for Wilbur’s answer. 

Tommy had always liked Schlatt, had always respected him, looked up to him. Even when the horned man beat him and Wilbur in the election, even when he _exiled_ the two of them, Tommy had respected Schlatt, despite Schlatt being perhaps the least deserving of Tommy’s respect than anyone else on the SMP.

And for whatever reason, Tommy had respected him enough to falter when Wilbur told him to put an arrow between his eyes.

Looking back on that day now, Tommy thinks that it maybe had less to do with the respect he’d always harbored for Schlatt and more to do with the state they’d found him in. It was pitiful, watching the man who had once been so impressive, so sure of himself crumble into the disavowed, deposed tyrant that had spent the majority of the war drinking himself to death in Tommy and Wilbur’s drug van. Tommy's heart clenches when he realizes he's seen all his heroes die. First Schlatt, then Wilbur. Now him. 

_You want to be a hero, Tommy? Then **die like one.**_

Tommy flinches as Technoblade's threat from so long ago rings in his ears. He's reminded of how fucked up his family is, and he once again feels so alone.

Wilbur is silent.

“Sorry,” Tommy mutters. “Forget I said-”

“Schlatt’s here,” Wilbur cuts him off. He turns his head to look at Tommy sideways. “Do you know much about mine and Schlatt’s relationship, Tommy?”

Something about Wilbur’s tone and the distant, slightly unfocused look in his eyes makes Tommy a little uneasy. It reminds him a little too much of the Wilbur he was exiled with. He pauses, then shakes his head. He’d known they were friends, once. He’d known it was Wilbur that had attempted to get Schlatt to endorse the two of them. He didn't know much beyond that.

Wilbur purses his lips but nods like that was the answer he was expecting. He doesn't offer anything else in way of explanation. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur says eventually, “how did you die?”

Tommy bristles. He hadn't been anticipating Wilbur to ask so bluntly. His hand hovers over the side of his face, not wanting to touch the tender, bruised flesh again if he could help it. Did his second exile just completely fly over Wilbur's head or something? Was he not aware of the fucking _nightmare_ Dream put him through during his time at Logstedshire? He grits his teeth. He would have thought it'd be obvious how he died. 

“Dream,” he says, dropping his hand onto the table and averting his eyes. There isn't much else to be said.

“Dream,” Wilbur repeats slowly. As if he can’t comprehend the idea of the masked maniac quite literally _beating_ his brother to death. 

Tommy sighs. “That’s what I said, big man.” 

There's a beat of silence. “Sorry,” Wilbur says. 

Tommy closes his eyes. He doesn't care. “It’s fine.”

“Are you mad at me, Tommy?” Wilbur’s eyes meet his and he seems to hold him in place with a gaze both unnerving and omnipotent. For a moment Tommy thinks he looks concerned, but he quickly shakes that thought away, and Wilbur's expression is once again stoic and unreadable. _It's all an act,_ Tommy thinks bitterly. _Just like always._

Tommy holds his gaze for as long as he can before tearing his eyes away from Wilbur’s and dropping them to the floor. He stares down at his feet, studying the layers of dirt that cake his scuffed shoes. Lying isn't going to make either of them feel better. “Yeah, Wilbur.”

Wilbur doesn't respond, he only sighs softly, and that's fine by Tommy. He doesn't really want to talk, anyway.

There's something _off_ about Wilbur, he thinks idly. This isn't the Wilbur that had helped him form L’Manberg. Hell, this isn't even the deranged Wilbur that had shattered Tommy’s ability to trust and taken everything from him. 

Maybe it’s a side effect of being dead, but whatever it is, it's starting to freak Tommy out. He feels paranoid. Nothing about this is natural. It feels wrong. The way they're in the literal _afterlife_ , yet Tommy’s neither seen nor heard anyone but Wilbur. _Always_ Wilbur. _Only_ Wilbur. His breath hitches before he can stop it. His eyes fly to Wilbur, who thankfully didn't seem to notice.

He knows they're not the only ones who have died on the SMP. Schlatt died. He _watched_ him die. He saw his _grave_ , for God's sake. Mexican Dream is dead, too. He knows he is. So, where are they? 

It's just not sitting right with Tommy. Never mind the fact that not even 48 hours ago he got his ass absolutely handed to him by the green bitch who rules over the SMP. He scoffs at the thought. He and Wilbur may have thought that they were in charge back when L’Manberg first declared independence. Schlatt might have thought he was the only tyrant once he won the election. They were all wrong. 

It's clear to Tommy now. He's not sure how he didn't see it until now. No matter who’s democratically elected, no matter who seizes power. They're not really in charge. _Dream_ is the one in charge. He's the one pulling the strings. He always has been, and Tommy was a fool to ever think otherwise. Fuck, he feels like he's going crazy. He feels like he can't breathe.

He sucks in a breath. "Where?"

Wilbur plucks absently at the strings on his guitar, making a face when the tune doesn't come out the way he wants it to. "What?" He asks without looking up, continuing to fiddle with his guitar. 

"Schlatt," Tommy says, "you said he was here. Where?"

Wilbur's fingers freeze on the guitar strings. He studies the instrument with a moderate disinterest and hums thoughtfully. A strangulating silence settles over them like a heavy blanket. Finally, Wilbur sighs. He looks over at Tommy with an unreadable expression. "Why the sudden interest?" 

The question is worded innocently enough, but something about Wilbur's tone and the way he's looking at Tommy makes him feel like he's being backed into a corner. He swallows thickly and holds eye contact for as long as possible before dropping his gaze to the floor and gripping the mug in his hands hard enough that his knuckles turn white. "Just, uh, y'know. I'm just wondering. Since we're all dead, I just figured it'd be time to make amends and, uh, and all that. Y'know?" His eyes flutter shut as he stumbles over his words, just as he has so many times before.

Wilbur stares at him, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and for a moment Tommy's sure he fucked up. He's sure Wilbur's going to snap at him. Then Wilbur's lips twitch into a smile. A real one. He tilts his head back and laughs. "Oh, Tommy," he says, looking down at his brother with a twinkling fondness in his eyes. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?"

Tommy's too shocked to register what Wilbur had said, let alone form a verbal response. His brain is still stuck on the fact that Wilbur hadn't hit him or yelled at him. He _laughed_. Wilbur had _laughed_ , and it wasn't the cruel kind of laughter, either. What is happening right now? Tommy had just been _so sure_ that Wilbur was hiding something from him, that Wilbur was like... like... that he was like... Dream. He thought that _Wilbur_ was like _Dream_. Tommy blanches at the realization, his face crumpling in despair and frustration as hot, angry tears prick at his eyes, threatening to spill over. 

Almost immediately, Wilbur stops laughing, and he's by Tommy's side in an instant, hands hovering uncertainly over his younger brother. "Tommy? Tommy, what's wrong? Talk to me."

"You're not him," Tommy gasps, pointing a shaky finger at Wilbur before throwing his hands over his face as he succumbs for the second time today to his emotions. He vaguely registers the sting and familiar trickle of blood as he digs his dirty nails into his face. The pain is welcome. "You're not him. I know you're not. I'm not crazy!"

Wilbur wraps his arms around Tommy, pulling him in close. "Who, Tommy?" He runs his fingers through Tommy's tangled, bloodied hair, his heart clenching as he realizes just how much gore is in his hair. He hugs Tommy tighter. "Who?" He asks again, pained. 

Tommy sobs wetly, the sound broken and pitiful. "Dream. Fuck." His words are muffled, his face pressed into Wilbur's shoulder. He should feel embarrassed. In life, he would have felt embarrassed. But right now, holding onto Wilbur for dear life as he's rocked back and forth like an infant, he doesn't feel embarrassed at all. 

"You're right," Wilbur whispers against Tommy's hair. "You're not crazy. I'm not Dream. You're right, Tommy. I'm Wilbur. You're with me and you're safe, I promise. It's okay. You're okay. I've got you. I've _always_ got you."

* * *

Wilbur lingers outside the shoddily put-together house. He eyes it with a certain amount of distaste. Since arriving in the afterlife, he'd made it a point to not come here unless absolutely necessary... or if he was especially desperate for a quick pick-me-up, but that's beside the point. He inhales deeply, regretting the action instantly. He grimaces at the sickening stench of smoke, vomit, and worse, probably. Wilbur doesn't know what Schlatt gets up to during the endless amount of time they've been graced with in the afterlife. He doesn't want to know.

He doesn't bother with knocking. Lord knows Schlatt wouldn't hear it if he did. And even if he did somehow hear, he wouldn't care enough to answer. He couldn’t be bothered enough to. Wilbur knows this by now.

With a long-suffering sigh, Wilbur pushes the door open, rolling his eyes when the piece of shit falls off one of its hinges. Might as well get this over with.

Wilbur's not surprised to see Schlatt passed out facedown at his table. He is surprised, however, to see Mexican Dream poised over the horned man, his features creased in what could be worry, but probably isn't. 

MD looks up upon hearing Wilbur enter the room. His gaze flicks down to Schlatt and then back up to Wilbur. He smiles easily, but it's forced. Wilbur can tell. Not that he cares. He's not here for Dream's counterpart. He's here, as unfortunate as it is, for Schlatt.

Mexican Dream speaks first. "I was just leaving." 

"That's fine," Wilbur says. 

Neither of them moves. Wilbur narrows his eyes ever so slightly. "I need to speak to Schlatt." His demeanor is calm, but the message is clear. _Alone_.

The masked man hesitates, looks like he's going to say something. Then he shrugs. "Sure thing, Hermano." He takes one last look at Schlatt and brushes past Wilbur, disappearing into the endless night.

Once he's sure the strange man is gone, Wilbur strides over to the table where Schlatt's passed out on. He scoffs, taking in the hybrid's disheveled appearance. Even from looking at just the back of his head, Wilbur can tell that Schlatt's really fallen off since they'd last spoken. A small bottle containing a glowing liquid pokes out from between Schlatt's folded arms. A potion. _Christ._ Wilbur stifles a groan. It's like Schlatt never learns. 

He gently tugs the potion from Schlatt's arms and carries it into the kitchen, where he unscrews the cork and dumps it into the sink, tossing the now empty bottle to the side carelessly. He watches the last of the glowing liquid seep down the drain before turning back towards Schlatt. After a second thought, he grabs two cups from the counter, trying not to focus on the grime of the glass, and he fills them both to the brim with water as cold as Schlatt's tap could get, humming softly to himself as he returns to the table. He dumps the water directly on Schlatt's head.

Schlatt jerks awake, wide-eyed and spluttering. For a moment, he squints around the room, getting his bearings. Then those yellow eyes of his land on Wilbur. He snarls, but relaxes against his chair, glowering up at the other man. "Wilbur Soot," he says, sickly sweet distaste dripping from his words. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone is mocking.

Wilbur watches disinterestedly as Schlatt fumbles around on the table and in the pockets of that disgusting suit he doesn't have the decency to ever wash, not since Wilbur’s been dead, at least.

Realization seems to dawn on Schlatt because he stops searching and locks eyes with Wilbur. "Soot," he warns, his voice low and dangerous. It doesn't have any effect on Wilbur, not anymore. 

"We need to talk," he says.

"Where is it?" A growl seeps into Schlatt’s voice.

Wilbur ignores him. "We need to talk," he says again.

Suddenly Schlatt’s in front of him, a clawed finger jabbed directly in his face, poking into his cheek with enough pressure to draw blood. Wilbur blinks at the suddenness of it. He'd forgotten how fast Schlatt can be, even in this wrecked state. "You listen to me, Wilbur Soot, and you listen closely," he snarls, grasping Wilbur's collar and tugging at him so that they're at eye level. Wilbur lets him. There's no use in getting violent now. He has more important things to worry about. He holds the eye contact. He knows Schlatt well enough to know that he views it as insubordination. A sign of contempt. He knows Schlatt feels threatened by it.

"What, Schlatt?" Wilbur says, bored.

The horned man bristles, lips pulling back into a snarl and exposing a pair of too sharp canines that glint menacingly in the darkness. "Those potions are _damn_ hard to make. I don't waste them. _Ever._ " His sheep eyes flick pointedly to the kitchen, where the now empty potion bottle lays discarded on the floor. 

Wilbur peels Schlatt's fingers from his shirt and straightens up, but he doesn't back away. "Look at yourself," Wilbur says, looking down at Schlatt with thinly veiled disgust. He swipes at the blood that had welled up on his cheek where Schlatt’s nail had broken the skin and examines the smear on his hand before wiping it on his pant leg absentmindedly. 

Schlatt pulls away scoffing. He stumbles around the table and around all the crap that has piled up on the floor before disappearing into his kitchen. He's twitchy, Wilbur notes, he isn’t himself. Back to using the harder stuff again, likely.

 _Whatever,_ Wilbur thinks. Let him spend the rest of eternity a miserable mess if that's what he wants.

He follows Schlatt into the kitchen but makes no move to stop him as the hybrid digs around in a poorly crafted chest, withdrawing two new potions from it.

Wilbur watches as Schlatt knocks back the first potion. "Tommy's dead," he says once the bottle is empty and Schlatt's attention is no longer solely on that vile shit. 

"Who?" Schlatt asks, uncorking the second bottle. He holds it out to Wilbur. 

"Tommy," Wilbur says, ignoring Schlatt's outstretched hand. "He's dead. Didn’t you know?"

Schlatt shrugs and takes a drink. "Huh." He laughs dryly, but it’s bitter and without any humor. It falls flat. "Dead, huh? A shame. He's a good kid."

Wilbur lifts an eyebrow. That... wasn’t the answer he had been expecting. "I'm surprised you think that," Wilbur says coolly, using his elbow to lean onto the counter. "Unless I'm mistaken, but weren't you the one to exile us after stealing our election?” He pauses and tilts his head ever so slightly, realization dawning on him and a devious, knowing little smirk forming on his face. "I think I know why."

“Yeah?” Schlatt’s swirling the potion bottle in wide, lazy circles. There’s a bored expression on his face. “Why?”

Wilbur smiles with a closed mouth, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You were scared.”

That seems to get Schlatt’s attention. His head snaps up and he gapes at Wilbur in disbelief, mouth opening and closing a few times before he throws his head back and cackles.

"Scared? _Scared?_ ” Loud as ever, Schlatt barks with laughter and shoves Wilbur into the counter, causing him to momentarily lose his balance. " _Please_ ," he sneers. "Give me a break, Wilbur. You really think I was scared of you?” Another spiteful laugh tears from his throat, the sound bordering on maniacal. “Fuck. You think I was scared of the _kid_? Of **_Tommy fucking Innit_**?”

"I do," Wilbur says quietly, and Schlatt pauses, tilting his head to the side and staring at him carefully with narrowed eyes.

Wilbur stares back, oddly mesmerized by Schlatt’s horizontal pupils.

Schlatt swirls the bottle in his hand carelessly before lifting it to his lips and downing the rest of it, all while keeping those mesmerizing sheep's eyes trained on Wilbur's face.

They fall into silence. They’ve played this game before, many, _many_ times. They both know how it goes. The room falls silent and neither of them say a word as they play their little staring contest.

Schlatt looks away first. Wilbur doesn't feel victorious.

"I meant what I said," Schlatt says, not meeting Wilbur's eyes. “It is a shame.”

For a moment Wilbur is reminded of the man Schlatt used to be. The man Schlatt could _still_ be, but he quickly pushes away that train of thought. Thinking that way will just hurt everyone involved. Schlatt isn’t that man anymore, he reminds himself. He's chosen his path, and if that path just so happens to be that of a moral burnout, then there’s nothing Wilbur can do to help him. It's too late for Schlatt and he’ll never amount to anything more than the tyrannical, raving alcoholic that had drank himself to death.

Finally, Schlatt sighs. He lifts his head to peer at Wilbur with bleary eyes, and with a slight unidentifiable pang in his chest, Wilbur realizes just how tired he looks. "Well," he says. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this instead of doing my homework that im weeks behind on cuz i thought it was boring pog


	3. Fear is his name, but his friends still call him God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter bc my midterms keep kicking my ass and it is making me very sad but it is okay bc this chapter was supposed to more of a short filler anyways. more plot to come in the next chapters >:)
> 
> edit: fuck i forgot to add a tw for blood and minor manipulation i guess? and characters just being assholes

"Tommy, do you like being dead?"

The question comes out of nowhere. Shocked, Tommy turns to look at Wilbur, who's facing away and staring out the window into the darkness of the land of the dead.

"There's no right or wrong answer," Wilbur says, nonchalant, as if that makes his question any less strange. 

Tommy stiffens. He doesn't really know. Sure, he misses the sun. Time works differently here, if at all, and he's not sure how long he's even been in the afterlife... how long it's been since he's seen the sun. What should be hours and days have long since blended together. He misses the sun, but there's something morbidly comforting about the perpetual night. After spending so much of his life in a hectic whirlwind of uncertainty and revolution, he's found himself rather enjoying just being able to relax for once and have no worries.

"I'm not sure," he says honestly, and Wilbur nods as if that's the answer he expected.

Tommy feels some of the tension leave his body. 

"Would you go back?" Wilbur finally turns to Tommy. His hair has fallen in front of his face, tousled curls shadowing his expression and giving him a dark, angular appearance. When he looks up, his eyes are glazed and unfocused. There’s a glint in them that makes Tommy’s stomach churn. 

“Wh- Wil, what do you mean? I’m dead. _We’re_ dead. There’s really no use in dwelling on things like that, Wilbur.”

“Theoretically,” Wilbur says, only moving to tilt his head slightly to the side, a movement that Tommy can’t help but describe as eerily animatronic. “Would you go back if you could?” His voice is low and the rumbling purr of it is all too reminiscent of Wilbur’s insanity arc, something that Tommy won’t soon forget, no matter how many times he tries.

If Tommy wasn’t already feeling a little uneasy, now he’s very much on edge. “Wilbur, I-I don’t understand… what do you-”

All of a sudden Wilbur is on his feet, arms outstretched. Tommy flinches when he feels Wilbur’s cold hands resting on his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, frozen in place, thoughts racing, and all he can think is _Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, Dream, Dream, Dream,_ **_Wilbur._ **

“I would.” Wilbur’s voice is hushed, and Tommy doesn’t need to look up to know that there's a sick, Cheshire grin stretched across Wilbur’s face. 

Finally, thankfully, Wilbur releases Tommy. “Let me ask you a question, TommyInnit.” He strides over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture straight, the perfect image of confidence and leadership. It makes Tommy sick. “Who _cares_ about L’manberg? Actually, you know what, who cares about _any_ of it? That server? That server has gone to shit without me, Tommy. Without _you._ ”

Tommy’s shaking his head. “No, no… Wilbur, no-”

“We could take it, Tommy,” Wilbur speaks right over him. “Don’t you feel it?"

"Feel- Wilbur, feel _what?_ What the fuck are you talking about? You're scaring me!" Tommy's backing away, alarm bells going off in his head. 

Wilbur's laughing now, the sound rich and dark and terrifying. "Tommy," he chides, "you didn't  _ really _ think that Dream would just kill you and that would be the end of it, did you? You can’t  _ possibly  _ think that this is it for you and I. Surely." He laughs again, and it’s never been any clearer to Tommy than it is now that the Wilbur he used to know is gone. If he hadn't completely fucking lost it in the Doomsday arc, then being stuck in the afterlife alone for who knows how long had been the final push into madness. It has to have been. 

"B-but the book," Tommy stammers, his voice taking on a pleading, frantic tone, "the revival book. It isn't real. It’s  _ not _ ."

Wilbur scoffs. "Who gives a damn about the book, Tommy? It's not the book that holds the power. It's  _ Dream.  _ And just between us, Tommy, just between you and I, compared to me? Compared to me, Tommy, Dream is a  _ fool.  _ He's nothing more than a puppet to me and he knows it. He knows how valuable I am, how much power I can wield, and it scares him. It scared Schlatt, and it scares Dream." Wilbur goes silent, peering at Tommy with dark, wicked eyes. Then, in a soft voice, "Tommy did you know that you can still bleed in the afterlife?"

It's enough for Tommy to decide now's a better time than any to get the  _ hell  _ out of Dodge, and he turns tail and fucking  _ runs.  _ He runs out of Wilbur's house and into the darkness of the fields outside, and he doesn't stop running until Wilbur's voice has stopped ringing in his ears. He doesn't know when he had started to cry, but he doesn't really give a shit, he just wipes his eyes and his nose with his bloodstained sleeve and grimaces when he catches a glimpse of it in his teary vision. Christ, he's dirty.

On tired, shaky legs, he stumbles over to a large, flat rock, and collapses heavily onto it. He needs to think. But first, he needs to sleep. 

* * *

Elsewhere, in the limbo between life and death, a man waits.

Pandora's Vault is more boring than Dream could ever have imagined, but in order for everything to work, he must follow the plan. He's not quite sure why the plan involved him being stuck in this _box,_ but if it gets him in control of his server once again, he'll do whatever is necessary. He smirks under his mask and casts his gaze over to where Tommy's body lays bloody and broken in the corner. Dream prods the body with his toe until it's propped up against the wall so that he can get a better look at it. He laughs. He can't help it. It's just amusing, really. After all the shit the kid had given him, after all the problems he had caused, he was finally _dead._ Each and every one of his lives had been torn from him by _Dream,_ and Dream _revels_ in it. He wouldn't consider himself a sadistic man, but something about feeling Tommy's blood run between his fingers and Tommy's bones crack and break in his grip had made him buzz with more euphoria than a high could _ever_ give him. 

He wants more. He'll get more, he knows he will. He just needs to wait. 

And Dream is a very patient man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if this has been made clear yet but i just wanted to add that the "ghostbur" in this fic is nothing like canon ghostbur. in this fic ghostbur and glatt dont technically exist. theyre just dead


End file.
